158 ALBACORA 



was Mario had seen. As we approached, the image no 

 longer resembled two men; it was, in fact, an albacora. 



Howard stood holding the line, the bait one hundred 

 feet astern. Walt clutched the wheel, eyes riveted on 

 the fin. I, sitting tense in the fighting chair, gripped the 

 rod. Nobody spoke. Lou started pulling the line off the 

 reel to make the loop. Doty crouched on the bridge, his 

 camera set. The boat was turning now, the bait trailed 

 out. It glided close to the albacora. 



"He's got to see it," I said, almost to myself. 



If the albacora was interested in the bait, he gave no 

 sign. The skipjack drifted in front of him for several 

 seconds. Then the albacora turned away. The second 

 time we tried to stir him into lunging forward the alba- 

 cora turned away again. 



"He's a wise old man," Walt said quite loudly. 



"That's how he got to be an old man in the first 

 place," Lou said with impatience. But there was noth- 

 ing anyone could do to hurry baiting. Until the alba- 

 cora was ready to tear at the spineless skipjack, not all 

 Walt Gorman's boatmanship, nor Luis Rivas' science, 

 nor the fishing years that Lou and I had spent, amounted 

 to a particle of difference. For these creeping minutes, 

 the albacora controlled us all. 



The third time Walt circled the broadbill, eagerness 

 almost betrayed him. Walt brought the Explorer closer 

 to the fish, and with no haste the albacora plunged be- 

 neath the surface. Curiously, the fish submerged with- 



